The Morning's Story
by Rach3
Summary: *Ch. 7 added!!!* Will finds Sydney's journal and has an alarming revelation....
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. Belong to genius folks at ABC. Just writing for fun.

Author's Note: Just started writing this yesterday morning. Loved the idea of doing a Will POV piece. Let me know what you think!

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At 7:04 a.m., Will Tippin's eyes fly open, the blue irises vibrant despite the early hour. He's not a morning person, never has been. Almost failed half of his journalism classes because of it (what sadist came up with the idea of 8 a.m. classes, anyhow?). But he has an idea, an idea that puts a smile on his scruffy, unshaven face. He decides to surprise her this morning. 

It's 7:05 a.m. and he's rolling out of Jenny's bed, careful to be as quiet as humanly possible. After all, he is a journalistan investigative journalist for one of L.A.'s biggest papers. He's good at keeping a low profile and sneaking around when the situation requires. And with his pants halfway on, he proves his point. His size 10 foot is somehow entangled in the cuff of his pantsand he trips. Catching himself before tumbling to the ground, Will hops around, quietly, of course, and remedies the problem. But not before backing into the wall and knocking down a picture frame (and uttering a curse word...or three.) Unfortunately, he's not fast enough to catch it. It is only six minutes after seven in the morning, and although he is wide awake, he's not a juggler. The lack of coordination and rhythm (although he knows he can do a mean Cabbage Patch if need be) runs in his family. It should be against all laws for his father to try to shake his groove thang. 

Thank God for the atrocious gold shag carpet in Jenny's room. The frame hardly makes a sound as it lands on the well-padded floor. 

He handles the frame (a different gold color than the carpeting - he's not Christopher Lowell, but knows it definitely clashes with the room) very delicately, as if it contained a priceless Monet instead of a cheesy red-eyed picture of Jenny and her sorority sisters on spring break. "More daiquiris!" he can almost hear them scream from the still shot. Hmmmhe had never noticed it before, but some of those devil-eyed girls were quite hot. Especially that brunette in the back --

Oh yeah, Sydney. His mind is back on track. He grabs his plaid button-down shirt, hopelessly wrinkled from its nighttime position on the floor, and tiptoes (exaggerated, almost cartoon-like) out of Jenny's room, only hearing a muffled, sleepy noise from his assistant/sometimes-lover. He throws on his Dodgers hat and heads out the door, not caring if the squeak of door hinges wake Jenny. 

Sydney would be up soon. She, unlike him, was the consummate morning person. She might even run a few miles before sitting down with a full breakfast and the morning paper (his paper, of course, becauseshe's a good friend that way). He briefly wonders what she'd say if she knew he was back on the Danny Hecht story. Then he sees the bakery and is consumed with a different train of thought.

He hopes this surprise will help lift her out of the funk she's in. He remembers the ragged, pained expression she wore last night when she returned from one of her trips - he thinks she said this one was to Chicago. As a journalist, he wonders what the hell that bank assigned her do that was so damn exhausting, both mentally and physically. As a friend, he wonders what he could do to put that gorgeous smile back on her face. The latter thought led him into the bakery, then to a fresh fruit stand, and finally to Starbucks. He approaches her door armed with buttery croissants (for him, he knows she won't eat them unless she's swimming in depression), a basket of fresh melon, strawberries, grapes and pineapple, and of course, the tall skim lattes. 

As he raises his hand to ring the doorbell, the door swings open. They both let out a surprised scream, his louder (and a little more high-pitched) than hers. Then they laugh. And he sees those dimples appear.and his heart flutters shamelessly.

"Will!" she says, still laughing. "What in the world are you doing here.you do know that it's not even eight 'o clock, right?"

He shrugged sheepishly, grinning. He holds out the food, his arms full. "I come bearing breakfast."

Her eyes widen. "That's so sweet - come in!" She grabs the coffees, nestled in a cardboard holder, and turns back into her apartment. He can't help but admire her body -- he's a guy after all, even if he does scream like a girl.

"Were you - were you going somewhere just now?" he asks, clearing his throat, following her slim form inside the airy living room.

She concentrates on placing the coffee cups on the kitchen table. "Actually, yeah. I was just going to run to the store really quick. Do you mind? It'll only take a second."

"What do you need? I can go get it," he offers, putting the fruit and croissants next to the coffee. 

She flashes him a disarming smile. "No, no, you've already done so much, Will. I'll be just ten minutes, OK?"

"Yeah sure - what do you need to get? I mean, I can go with you if you want, I really don't mind."

She plants a soft kiss on his cheek, rubbing his arm with three fast strokes. "I need to get the morning paper - I'm really quite a fan of one of its star reporters."

Will rolls his eyes, but can't help but beam at the flattery. "Alright, fine.go ahead. I'll start on these croissants."

"Good." She whisks her keys off the kitchen table and heads to the door. "Don't go anywhere - I'll be right back!"

And she's gone. Like so many times before. There one second, gone the next. 

Will wonders from where she gets all that energy. Always on the go, always running off for a meeting, a business trip, a run to the store. No wonder she looked so tired last night - but he knows there was more than just exhaustion in those eyes, in the way her shoulders were hunched, in the somber way she spoke, in the teary-eyed way she dismissed him. Something had happened on this last trip.

He is mulling over a number of possible bank emergency scenarios in his head when a bound black book catches his eye. He's never seen it beforeand it's just sitting there, on the coffee table, open, with a black pen nestled between the pages. It can't behe moves closer.oh, it is.Sydney's professional, slanted scroll fills the pages. Her journal. Oh, this is temptation of the worst kind, Will thinks, trying to look away from the writing. But a word catches his eye. 

Love.

His heart stops for a moment in anticipation of the next few words. "I've tried to deny it, to push it away, to remain distant and aloof, but it's futile, I think. I can't pretend any longer. I'm falling in love with him, and he has no idea."

Who? Who is she writing about? Will slides from his standing position, a hand resting on an arm on the couch, to sit on the couch, his blue eyes burning into the lined pages. He can't read fast enough, can't digest the information at the speed he desires. He only has a few minutesone space in time during which he is completely allowed into Sydney's world. In the back of his mind, he knows this is wrong, a violation of the worst kind, that he isn't technically "allowed" into her secret thoughts, but rather he is sneaking in through an unmarked back door. 

But he can't help himself. He loves her. He needs to know where her heart lies, what she thinks, and if, by some odd quirk of fate, if she loves him too. He knows he could simply ask her these questions, instead of reading her most private thoughts, but there were no guarantees of an honest answer - the truth. And being a trained truth-seeker, he knows he's stumbled upon the one object that could pull all the pieces of Sydney Bristow together. He knows she hides a lot, things she feels she can't confide in him or Francie. And now a strong ray of light is being shed on that part of her. He knows it's wrong, but he just can't pull his eyes away. 

"It's like I'm falling headfirst in this black and white spiral, spinning closer to something I can't define, can't understand. And I'm powerless to stop it. He's the only one who knows me, who could possibly grasp all the facets of my life. Oh, God, I don't know what to do. Sometimes, when we're engaged in some pointless conversation, some inane small talk about the weather or a new movie that neither of us has seen, I feel so connected to him. This attraction surpasses all others, like this magnetic force that makes me look at him in a way I could not have just a few months ago."

Will's mouth goes dry as he continues to read.

"I know that it could never work. It's best to keep things at a friendly level, the practical (and probably smartest) part of me says. But when he turns those eyes on me, especially when I need him the most, I don't think in a practical manner. I think in terms of hands and lips, in terms of heat and heart. I think of passion, and the security he somehow provides me every time we're together. And how he has come to accept me for who I am, for my past, for everything we've both been through. The most gentle, beautiful, perfect man is standing right in front of meand I'm basically powerless to do anything about it. Unfortunately, the circumstances that surround our relationship won't change. My heart, so stubborn, won't likely be budged. Dear God, I know this shouldn't be happening, but I think I love him."

Will's jaw drops. Is she talking about him? It all makes sensedoesn't it? This man could very well be him. Who else could it be? She hasn't been dating anyonehasn't brought any new friends overwho else could it bebut him? Is it possible that she secretly loves him, that she's moved past those kiss-on-the-cheek-let's-just-remain-friends feelings she had awkwardly conveyed after those two recent kiss disasters?

He turns the page hungrily, seeing just six more sentences.

"I won't lie to myself anymore - I am falling in love with him. It's the worst possible thing that could've happened in this situation, I won't lie about that either. But the most pressing question remains: what do I do about this? I don't think I can handle another betrayal, though, I can only sustain so much. And if I let him inI can't bear to think of what could happen if it all were to go terribly wrongor if he doesn't feel the same way I do.I can't risk everything for which we've worked so hard. I can't - maybe we are just aren't meant to be."

Yes we are! My God, Will thinks, his mind buried in shock, in these written revelations. She loves him.? Could it be? 

The sound of a key rattling in the front door brings him out of this love-induced fog. He swiftly rearranges the journal and jumps back to the kitchen table, stuffing a croissant in his mouth and gulping down half of his latte. 

He chews distractedly, but not fast enough to prevent himself from coughing on a chunk of croissant that lodges itself in his throat. 

"You okay?" Sydney laughs, floating into the room. She is glowing, her cheeks flushed and dewy. That's the look of love, Will thinks. Is it on my behalf? 

She tosses the newspaper on the coffee table, spots the journal and whisks it away nonchalantly. 

He coughs again and swallows. "Uh-huh." Words, for this journalist, are not to be found at this moment. 

The old-fashioned steel-rimmed clock on the wall reads 8:01. Just an hour ago, he was in another world. One that consisted of waking up at the home of a sometimes-lover/assistant, an unsteady future and an unrequited love for a friend. It had all seemingly changed in the course of an hour. In this heavy haze, he can't even begin to grasp a mere word. His eyes, permanently widened, trance-like, just follow her.

She walks briskly to the doorway of her bedroom, her ponytail bouncing, and tosses the journal on her work desk before sitting down next to her friend.

He can't look her in the eye, but he knows he has to say something. These newfound revelations have his mind buzzing, his heart racinghe needs to say something, anything.

"What's your story today?" she starts, motioning to the paper.

He sees only the journal. The crisp writing, so unlike his messy journalist note-taking scrawl. The world stops as his mouth opens, the words flowing like water, drowning out all other stimuli in the room. "I love you."

  



	2. One Sentence, Three Words

Author's Note: I can't stop writing today. Here's the second part to "The Morning's Story" -- hope y'all like it. Let me know what you think. 

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They belong to the geniuses at ABC. Just writing for the fun of it.

Archive: Yep. Just let me know, 'kay?

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One Sentence, Three Words   
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A long pause. So long that Will actually can hear his hope for a reciprocal love with Sydney slip away. She hasn't moved, hasn't looked at him, hasn't responded at all. _Shit, shit, shit. Oh no, no, no, no. I didn't just tell her I love her. I didn't just put everything on the line with one sentence, three words._

His mind blanks. All he knows is a long, white tunnel of flashing agony. The wait is killing him. Why doesn't she say something? Why doesn't_ he_ say something?

_Take it back, you damn moron. Just shoot her a grin and say you were kidding. Tell her it was a fucked up, stupid joke gone wrong. Tell her you were talking to yourself. Tell her you were talking the croissant that was lodged in your throat. Tell her it was your deranged, completely foolish evil twin that just spoke. It wasn't you - not the well-educated, totally sensible Will. Awwwww shitthis is not happening. Shitshitshitshit._

The sadist in him can't take his crystal blue eyes off her. Really, he does not like this torture, this hurt, this sinking feeling in his stomach, but part of him is clinging to the notion that maybe she will lift her eyes to his and offer a smile. 

Or maybe she'll just keep sitting there, looking at her hands, slackjawed. _For another five minutes._

He's convinced he's the biggest jackass in the world. What kind of man sleeps with one woman one night and confesses his love to another the next morning? An utter fool. An egocentric idiot. A man who can't balance his checkbook. A man who really can't dance any better than his 62-year-old gray-haired father. A man who is chasing after an illusion, a dream of a woman who hasn't given him a single indication that she wants anything more than friendship.

But what about the journal? What about the love she has hidden away for someone? All signs were pointing toward Will, indicating newly blossomed feelings of love for him - right? She loves someone - why wouldn't it be him? And if it's not him, than who?

"Syd," he starts, his voice hushed. "I-"

"Stop."

The one word is hardly a whisper, but carries the force of a thundering roar. Will can't breathe. He can't see. Only one word breaks through the whirling static in his brain: _shit_. He's sensing a trend developing here. 

She doesn't say another word. Her face is pale. She no longer carries the look of love on her cheeks. She looks like a woman reeling. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here. 

"Let me explain -"

Her fingers, so quick, fly to his lips. The unexpected contact takes his breath away - he no longer thinks of speaking. His dry, parched lips can feel the soft smoothness of her fingertips. He doesn't dare move, although the only thing he can think of doing is puckering his lips against her taut flesh.   
Then she looks at him and smiles as if she is really seeing him for the first time. His eyebrows feel like they're jumping right off his face. _Could this be? Was I right all along?_

Her fingers brush his cheek. He can hear his stubble scratch them.

"Will?" Her brown eyes are sparkling. He can't help but grin. She loves himshe wants him. He is the one she desires. 

"Huh?" _Yes. I am articulate._

Her fingers run across his cheek once more, just barely grazing the corner of his mouth. He resists the urge to ravish her right then and there. She smiles a wide, toothy smile. "You havea piece of croissant on your face."  



	3. Jealous Accusations

Author's Note: Here's part three of "The Morning's Story"...enjoy.

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. They belong to the geniuses at ABC. Just writing for fun.

Archive: Yep, just let know, 'kay?

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Jealous Accusations  
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_Damn French breakfast food. _

Completely horrified: the only words that can accurately describe his feelings at this moment.

"Oh Jesus," he mumbles, rubbing his mouth harshly, like a Brillo pad on a greasy pan. Take that, you stupid croissant, he thinks angrily. The thought of punching himself in the face flashes through his mind suggestively (and quite crazily). Sure, it would hurt like hell, but it couldn't begin to compare to the turmoil that is bubbling inside his mind right now. Plus, it would probably take his mind off the nausea.

He stands suddenly, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Okay, this is stupid." Once those words are out of his mouth, he doesn't know what else to say. He  
doesn't even have the vaguest idea what he's calling 'stupid' -- the croissant, the situation, himself. So he just stands there, his hand rubbing  
his forehead. As if that action would rub out all thoughts and feelings for Sydney.

"Will, we need to talk," she reaches up and grabs his arm, pulling him back down on the couch. He's never noticed how strong she is. He wonders how much  
she could bench press.

Resistance is futile. _Take it like a man, Will Tippin, and you might just (maybe) have some pride left when you walk out of this apartment today. _

"About what you just said a few minutes ago...." she starts, concentrating on her hands. Will has always thought her hands, with their slim, agile  
fingers, would've given even Michaelangelo pause. His eyes narrow as he notices dark bruises covering her fingers. _How the hell...?_

"I shouldn't have said anything, Syd," Will blurts out, his voice painfully strained with emotion. "Let's just forget about this, OK?"

She looks up from her hands and their eyes meet. And he knows. His questions about her true feelings have all been answered.

His heart breaks. 

He pictures himself jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, headfirst, arms stuck fast to his sides. He pictures the first time he's introduced to Syd's mystery man. He pictures himself hurling punch after punch at his smirking, but nondescript face. His fists clench. 

Then he takes a deep breath and the words come gushing out.

"I know, I know...I'm a jackass. You'd think after getting shot down twice before, I'd get the picture," he smiles ruefully. "But sometimes I can be  
surprisingly dense, I guess."

"Will, you know that's not true," she says softly. He can tell she's trying to select her next words very carefully. She wrings her hands (he can't help but stare at those bluish-purple bruises) and bites her lip for a second. "I do love you, really, just -"

"Don't even say it," he interrupts, his forehead wrinkled in hurt. _Just not in that wayjust as a friend.just like a brother_it turns his stomach to even think of how she was going to end that sentence. 

Tears form in her eyes and now he's mentally kicking himself for putting her in this position. Damnit. Why is he always fucking things up between the two of them?

He should leave. It would be easier for him, perhaps even for her if he did so. But there is still one issue unresolved. And damn him, he can't let it go.

"So who is he?" _Shit. You had to go and say it. You can't just let it go, you've got to get all worked up and jealous about it. _

Shock registers on Sydney's face, her perfectly arched brows rising. "What are you talking about?"

Will sighs heavily. _This is going to be difficult._ "Please be honest with me. I know you, Syd, I can see the look on your face. For the past few weeks, you've been beamingexactly like you were when you first met Danny."

Her face falls at the mention of her deceased fiancé. "Seriously, Will, I'm not dating anyoneyou know that."

"I didn't ask if you were dating someone," he shot back immediately. "You are_ in love_ with someonewith some guy you've been hiding from Franciefrom all of your friends." _Some guy you've been hiding from me_, he wants to shout. "I just want to know who it is."

"You sound a little paranoid," she replies, her voice calm but cool. Her brown eyes lose their warmth as she proceeds to stares him down. 

God help him, he's actually a bit scared of her. 

"No, I just hate the feeling that my best friend is hiding something from me," he says. He reaches for her hands. She winces.

"What happened to your hands? He didn't do that to you, did he?" _Shut up, Will, just let it be! Stop digging away at this!_ He can't; he is lusting after the truth, which means getting to the bottom of this puzzle.

"I hurt them when I was running," she says, stubbornly holding his gaze. "I tripped, fell and my hands luckily broke my fall."

He doesn't believe her. He knows he should just nod and apologize and let this whole embarrassing nightmare end already. "I don't believe you," he says instead. "Tell me what really happened, Sydney.please," he adds in an effort to placate her.

"Fine, do you want to know the complete truth?" she responds, pulling her hands out of his grasp. She stands, towering above him now.

He nods, his lips parted in anticipation. Finallythe whole story.

"The truth is that you're trying to interrogate me here, trying to pry information out of me like I'm one of your sources. I don't like that. I told you the truth, but you elect to doubt me. And if I did have some mystery man, like you insist, then maybe it's none of your business, Will. And I care for you.you're one of my best friends, but I will not let you badger me."

He is defeated. She is _so_ right, he finally realizes. He hangs his head in shame. Who did he think he was to demand Sydney divulge such personal information, then not believe her when she does?

"God, I don't know what to say except I'm so sorry," he begins, standing. Her hard expression dissolves into a warm smile and she puts her arms around him. He squeezes. She squeezes back. "Let's just forget this ever happened."

"It's okay," she whispers in his ear. "Just don't do this again or I'll kick your ass."

This time he believes her. And the embarrassment is back...flashbacks of his foolish admittance of love, his jealous accusations. He thinks he totally sucks as a friend...and as a journalist. He cannot wait to leave. 

"I'm gonna' get goin', Syd," he says after she breaks off the hug. "Sorry for -"

"It's already forgotten, 'kay?" she insists, kissing him on the cheek. His fractured heart flutters one last time and he leaves, carefully shutting the door quietly behind him. He remembers it's not her front door that squeaks._ Just an hour and a half ago, your relationship with Sydney was still strong. You had not attacked her, you had been nothing but a supportive friend. Now, at 8:35 a.m., your friendship has been battered and you don't know if it'll ever be the same._

_Another fine mess you've made, Will Tippin_, he thinks as he starts toward his SUV. His feet are dragging, his eyes are sore and he suddenly wants to get the rest of his coffee that's sitting on Sydney's kitchen table.

He dashes up the stairs and opens the door quietly. 

He hears her talking to someone. "I'm sorry to bother youno, really, I feel bad about calling you like this.no, I'm okaydo you have time to talk sometime today?"

Will peers around the partially ajar door and sees her standing in the kitchen, her back to him, her hand on her slim hip. He can hear her smile. "Yeah, I can be there in twenty minutes.yeah. Okay. That's fine." A pause, during which Will debates whether or not to say something. "Hey, Vaughn? Thanks."

Will's jaw clenches. He is careful, yet again, to close the door silently behind him.

  
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Note: I'm thinking of continuing this story, but from Sydney's POV...rife with S/V shippiness....but I haven't decided. What do you think? Let me know!


	4. Promising Interlude

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Belong to ABC, etc. Just writing for fun, as always.

Author's Note: This is the fourth part in "The Morning's Story" -- hope it keeps your interest! 

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Promising Interlude  
********** 

At 7:49 a.m., she decides to sprint the two miles to the warehouse, knowing it is best not to leave Will too much time alone in her place. 

After all, he's a journalist -- an extremely nosy one at that, which she's sure is great for investigative reporting, but it equals nothing more than potential trouble for her. She had an uneasy feeling as soon as she saw him standing on her doorstep this morning. There was something in his eyes that was unsettling, something in the way he looked at her that made her feel odd. So she's ready to get this debriefing on yesterday's mission over as soon as possible, despite the desire to hang with Vaughn. 

_Hang with Vaughn. _The phrase sounds strange, out of place. She'll never get to "hang with Vaughn" in the way she can with Francie or Will (even though she's starting to think twice about Will now). She'll never get to meet him in public for a cup of coffee, chat over dinner, go to that Kings game like she wanted (she doesn't really care for hockey, but to spend a few hours with him, in his element, would be more than worth it).

It's a warm L.A. morning and she's a little sweaty when she finally makes it to their meeting place. He's waiting for her, of course, dressed down, it being Saturday and all.

Faded jeans and a dark gray polo shirt hang from his tall, slim but athletic frame. He looks much more vulnerable in his "street clothes" -- not as formal, more approachable, more human. His hands jammed are jammed in his pockets. A smile plays on his lips the moment he sees her. Too bad she isn't greeted like this every morning. He is damn fine.

"Hey there," she says, still breathing heavy from her run. She puts down her messenger bag, props a leg up on a nearby crate and starts to stretch her muscles.   
"Good morning," he replies. "How was the Panama trip?"

"Everything went as planned," she replies, continuing to stretch. "I got the files you wanted. They're in the bag." She points to the black bag on the cement floor.

Vaughn looks worried, his forehead wrinkled in concern. "What the hell happened to your hands, Sydney?"

She rolls her eyes. "The result of being caught between a heavy wooden door and its equally sturdy frame. I had a close call." She shoots him a crooked smile. He doesn't return it. 

"Let me see." He reaches for her hands protectively.

Moving away from the crate, she wipes her hands on her jogging pants. "They're okaya little sweaty, but just fine."

The look she gets in return reminds her of a wary, but caring parent. "Sydney." It's all he has to say. 

She holds out her hands, garishly dotted with dark bruises. She averts her gaze, because even as much as she's been through, it still hurts to recognize the painful side effects of her job. "I should get worker's comp." The sentence trails off, the thought forgotten as he carefully cradles her hands in his.

The initial contact reminds her of licking a spoonful of sweet peach ice cream. Heavenly, filled with promise. A small lump begins to form in the back of her throat. "Maybe we should have a doctor examine them, just in case," he advises, turning them to examine her palms. 

"There's nothing broken," she assures him, but not pulling her hands away from his tender grasp. "Believe me, I've had more than my share of broken fingers."

"That's something you shouldn't have to deal with." His tone is heartfelt, emphatic, downright protective. His thumbs gently graze both palms, sweeping from one side to the other. Feeling instant pleasure, she bites her lip to conceal a moan that would most certainly betray her. Their eyes meet, hers a smoldering brown; his a questioning, caring emerald.

"That tickles," she breathes, trying to giggle to cover her own ass. But the giggle catches in that lump in her throat, resulting in a ragged, almost sensual growl. _Whoa, there, tiger_, she thinks. _Gotta' control that libido. Jesus, why don't you just send him a written invitation for sex? _

An image appears - a white card with hot pink lettering. _"Dear Vaughn: Got sex?"_

"Sorry," he says, letting go of her hands. A long pause. She hasn't felt this close to someone, hasn't felt this gauzy shroud of intimacy since Danny. And she hasn't felt this completely embarrassedwell, ever. 

"Yeah," she backs away and reaches for the black bag. "Let me give you what you came here for." _Nice choice of words._

He clears his throat.

And automatic pilot kicks in. A manila folder full of important files is handed over to Vaughn. _Funny, he doesn't look like a Michael. He doesn't look like a Stuart, Johnny or Kevin, either, though. Vaughn is just so much more fitting - the only name that really works. _Mission details are relayed. No small talk. She's all business, even if she's only decked out in black jogging pants and a T-shirt.

"I've really got to get going," she says, throwing the empty bag across her body. "Will is waiting for me at my place."

"Oh?" Who would've guessed that one word could convey so much?

"Yeah, it's weird.he showed up right as I was leavingand believe me when I say that it completely out of character for him. It takes either a bowl game or one major story for him to be up before eleven, let alone standing at my door with breakfast," she shakes her head, confused. "Something's up. I've got a feeling."

"Well, be careful," he says, tapping the manila folder on the tips of his fingers. She can't tell if he said it out of habit or because he actually thinks Will would do something stupid. "If you need anything."

She nods. He is understood. "Yeah, I know." She turns and starts toward the warehouse exit. "Later, Vaughn," she calls over her shoulder.

As she jogs back home, she keeps replaying the feeling of his touch. She swears she can still smell him - a soapy, fresh scent that is so distinctly Vaughn. 

And despite the thoughts of Will weighing on her mind, she can't keep the smile off her face.

********  
  
Note: Yeah, yeah, I decided to backtrack a bit, hope that's OK. Let me know what you think!


	5. Love and....Marriage?!?

Disclaimer: Same old, same old. Characters aren't mine. Just writing for fun.

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took so long to post -- but I needed to get my taxes done. :) 

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

******

Love....and Marriage?

******

"I love you." 

As soon as the words leave Will Tippin's lips, Sydney blanks. _Oh shit. No, no, no....he did not just say that. Shit, shit, shit._ She's wringing her hands, not feeling the soreness caused by pressing on those damn bruises.

The fat bald guy was fast for being...well...fat. (Being bald really had nothing to do with his speed, although it couldn't hurt with aerodynamics...) He was no more than three steps behind her as she ran for her life through the cavernous halls of the Casa Malinez. Panama. Yesterday. Pre-bruises. Four files clutched in her left hand -- one for SD-6, three for the CIA. And the sweaty porker breathing down her neck was really starting to annoy her. 

Damn heels. She usually didn't have a problem wearing them, but then again, posing as a Brazilian madam meant wearing unusually high stilettos. Bastard Sloane had to use that alias for this mission, didn't he? As she rounded a corner, her heels pounding on the expensive marble, she realized that the fat guy wasn't relatively fast...she was particularly slow. _Thank God for beefy, sloth-like security guards_, she thought. The back door! She saw it and threw herself into high gear, pumping her arms at her sides to gain momentum. Her right hand threw open the door, and two seconds later, the fat guy grabbed her left arm, pulling it toward him in order to retrieve the files. 

With a grunt, she spun, her long leg raising to dig a stiletto into his fleshy chest. _Yeah, fatass, I'd like to introduce your flabby man breasts to my pointy heel... _He swore, releasing her arm. She turned back to the door...and was horrified when she felt herself losing her balance, her legs wobbling on the heels. Both flailing hands finally latched onto the wooden doorway and she was steadied. Then the fat guy smiled, a horrendous, greasy, bad teeth kind of smile. This is not good, she thought, trying to mobilize herself. Too late. The door had slammed, catching her hands between the rock-solid doorjamb and the heavy, hard door. Her fingers burned. The files had been dropped. She was pissed off. Since she was solo on this mission, she had plenty of time to kick his ass. And she did. Oh, yeah, and she recovered the files.

Now she wants to kick the fat guy's ass all over again, her eyes scanning over her discolored hands. She realizes a few minutes have passed since Will last spoke, but she doesn't know what to do...or say. This is not something she could've planned for, or even anticipate in the slightest. _Ohhhh...this sucks. _There is only one man she wants to say those words, and he's probably back in his bed already, falling asleep. Or perhaps he's walking his dog...or maybe he is strolling on the beach. Vaughn strolling. The word 'strolling' has never seemed so hot before...but paired with his name it becomes downright sexy, the kind of word that rolls of your tongue so easily but leaves it tingling for minutes after. She wonders what his life is like -- what he does when he has free time. Does he even have free time? Is he dating someone? (_Oh, God, I hope not._)

Will is staring at her with this lost, sad look in his eyes. She wishes she could love him. Life would be so much easier, so less complicated. She wouldn't be searching her mind frantically for the right words, wouldn't be fantasizing about some unattainable man, wouldn't be praying that the ground beneath her feet would open up and swallow her whole. That would solve this little dilemma, wouldn't it?_ Sorry, Will, but it looks like I'll be falling down this crevasse now...I'll see ya when I see ya, okay pal?_

"Syd," his raspy voice breaks into her thoughts like a sledgehammer. "I--"

"Stop." The word spills out of her mouth -- she didn't want to say it, she her first words after Will's declaration of love to be a little more...well, sensitive. _C'mon, Syd, get your shit together. He's your best friend, you need to treat him with a little more respect._

Will looks as if he's been slapped. Eyes wide, mouth wide open. Pure shock. _That must've been what I looked like a few minutes ago...._  
She silently hopes he doesn't say anything else for a while. She needs a few more minutes to think this through. What would she want Vaughn to say if she admitted her love for him...and he only wanted a professional relationship? Just the mere thought of that scenario tears at her heart. What would he do?

"Let me explain--"

_Damn you, Will...shut up! _Her fingers fly to his lips. That's exactly what she'd want Vaughn to do. _That way I could feel his soft fingertips one last time...._

Her eyes suddenly move to Will's face and it takes all of her willpower not to burst out into laughter. A dime-sized piece of flaky croissant is on his cheek, caught in his thick stubble. She tries to push it away with one sweep across the side of his face, but to no avail.

_Stubborn little piece of shit_, she thinks. _I don't want to embarrass him...God, that's the last thing I want to do. But I don't want him to think I'm trying to make a move on him...that's the second to last thing I want to do...or is the ultimate last? _And as she sits there, silently debating, she catches a look in Will's eye. It's a look of unabashed adoration, combined with a healthy dose of hope._ He thinks this is a gesture of love...oh shit._ She decides to make one last effort. "Will?" she says, trying to buy some time.

"Huh?" he responds, the word catching in his throat. Oh shit, he does think I'm love with him! _Do it, Sydney, do it!_ Her eye is drawn to the dangling croissant fragment. _Maybe it'll just fall...and I won't have to say anything...maybe...maybe......._

_Or maybe it'll just stay there forever. And instead of embarrassing him, I'll tell him I love him and we'll get married, have kids and maybe one day they'll break the news to him that he has a moldy, 10-year-old piece of croissant stuck to his face. _

_Or maybe I'll try one more time._ She brushes his cheek once more, watching in horror as the mighty croissant piece, so valiant, held strong in its position. _Damn._

_What'll I tell our kids?_ "Ahhh, the moment I knew your dad and I were destined to be together...I remember it like it was yesterday. You see, I just couldn't bear to tell him he had this chunk of food on his face. Instead, I decided to continue my life of lies and marry the poor schmuck. Delightful story, isn't it, kids? Yes, it is a fairy tale come true."

_Or maybe I'll just be ball-crushingly honest. _

"You have....a piece of croissant on your face."

************

What a shitty morning. Sydney can hear Will's fading steps, descending the staircase outside as she continues to reel from their awkward confrontation. 

"Fucking insane," she whispers to herself, running her fingers through her hair. She can't be alone right now, especially after feeling as if she's lost one of her best friends. Only one name pops into her head. Vaughn.

She dials his number like she's on speed, her fingers nothing but a flesh-colored blur flying over the keypad of her cell phone.

_This is wrong_, she thinks. _I should not be doing this. But Vaughn will understand_, she rationalizes. Just as she's about to hang up, she hears his voice. "Hello?"

Her body temperature is now only a few measly degrees cooler than the sun. _All he has to do is say one word, any word, and I'm hooked. He could answer his phone with a chipper rendition of the Golden Girls theme song and I'd be drooling -- I'm that pathetic._

"Hi, it's me." She feels strange saying that -- it's almost like they're a little too informal._ Like when I used to call Danny, post-mission, after landing at LAX: "Hey sweetie...it's me."_

"What's going on?" he asks, sounding worried. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah, something just happened with Will...it was bad, God, so bad," she starts. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"You're not," he says matter-of-factly, like this is something she should know by now. "I wish you could believe me when I say that."

His reassurance is charming. "No, really, I feel bad for calling you like this."

"Sydney, you don't sound that great -- is there I anything I can do?"

"No, I'm OK," she starts. She's about to end the phone call, saying just to forget the whole thing. She places a hand on her hip to steady herself -- she realizes she needs him to be there for her now. It's odd having that feeling -- that dependence on someone again. "Do you have time to talk sometime today?" 

"Of course," he replies instantly. She thinks she hears the muffled sound of a sweatshirt being pulled on, brushing the receiver. "I can be at the warehouse in a few. How does that sound?"

_Sounds wonderful. _She closes her eyes and smiles. _Thank you, Vaughn. _"Yeah, I can be there in twenty minutes," she says.

"Are you sure you're OK?" he asks again, and she can just picture his worried expression on the other end of the line.

_No._ "Yeah," she lies.

"I'll see you in twenty, then."

"That's fine," she responds._ Thanks for being my friend....thanks for always being there for me....thanks for discarding what could be a relaxing Saturday morning for me....thanks for helping me feel love again. _"Hey Vaughn? Thanks."

"You don't have to thank me," he says. She hears him smile. "You know that."

"I know. I'll see ya in a few minutes."

They say a brief goodbye and she turns toward the door, having just felt another presence in the room. _Am I being watched...or am I completely paranoid?_

After a quick search of the apartment, she's relieved to discover it's the latter. She peers out the window, her fingers separating the blinds just enough to see out. Will's car is still in the parking lot -- he's sitting in the driver's seat....and he's looking up at her apartment. She moves away, praying he didn't see her. _I'm just paranoid, that's all. Nothing more than a simple case of neurosis, pure and simple_, she rationalizes. _Besides, I've gotta' get going. Vaughn is waiting._

_******_

Note: That's it for now. Haven't decided the POV of the next chapter.....suggestions? Will, Syd, Vaughn? Feedback is welcome!


	6. Whiplash

Disclaimer: Don't own anything...not even my car (it's a lease). So yeah, I'm just writing for fun...all characters belong to ABC/JJ/Bad Robot/not me.

Note: We'll get to that warehouse scene with Syd and Vaughn, but first a little Will POV (since I just love writing in his POV). I upped the rating to 'R' since there's bad language and references to things of a sexual nature.

****************

****************

_I can't believe I'm fucking lost._

Will Tippin slams his left palm into the steering wheel out of anger and frustration. In reaction, the car jerks to the left, crossing the oncoming lane (which is thankfully empty) and jumping the curb.

"Shit!" he exclaims, his SUV swerving to graze a metal newspaper box with a grating screech and a hail of bright sparks. His head whips around to see the newspaper box sway, but steady, and his foot slams on the brake. His head snaps forward (_Did I just give myself whiplash?_) and he swears again, this time under his breath.

_Oh, that great, just wonderful! Tops off the perfect morning, doesn't it? I get up at the asscrack of dawn (seven, for Christ's sake!), get shot down by Sydney, but not before getting into a nice little fight with her and probably ruining our friendship, not to mention any chance of romance. Yeah. Oh and let's not forget the mystery phone call I happen to overhear...(who the fuck is that tool "Vaughn")...and now I've lost sight of her car. Great. Try to be all investigative-reporter-like by tailing her, and get nothing but lost in the industrial section of L.A. and (I'm sure) a huge scrape alongside my Jeep. I could've had a much better day if I had just stayed in Jenny's bed this morning. At least I might have gotten some head._

"But no, I'm stuck here, maybe with whiplash," he says to himself, shifting into park. "Completely disoriented in the middle of what looks like the largest, most confusing warehouse _community_ in all of California." 

He licks his parched lips and reclines in the driver seat. "Oh yeah, life is fucking grrrreat." He wants to laugh because he just totally sounded like a really drunk Sean Connery doing an American accent. "Fucking grrrrreat," he repeats, chuckling._ No wonder the chicks dig me_,he thinks caustically. 

He thought she would never notice he was following her. He took extreme care to maintain a few cars behind her (that was the proper procedure, wasn't it?) when suddenly, her car accelerated, made a sharp right and disappeared, leaving no sign except a black pair of tire skid marks. And that was ten minutes ago. He had followed his instincts, turning from one identical warehouse-cluttered street to another, hoping he'd catch a glimpse of her car. _But no, I'm stuck here...and yeah, *definitely* with whiplash._

So what to do now? Will bites his lip and adjusts his glasses over his crystal-blue eyes. He could keep searching for her, but knows that's probably a total waste of time. He could go back home and admit defeat, except he doesn't know which way home is. Or he could just sit here and rot away...with a pulled muscle in his neck and a gargantuan gouge down the left side of his vehicle. _Hell, what a dazzling array of tempting choices we've got here, William._

_Damn it. _He swears he saw her eyeing him in her rearview mirror, but that couldn't be, could it? Normal people don't ever worry about being tailed, do they? _I know I don't...sorry, *didn't*... that whole Eloise Kurtz/surveillance bug thing has certainly changed things a bit._

He decides to head home, shifting the car into drive and easing back into the empty street. He reaches an intersection, which (surprise) has a warehouse on each corner. He looks down the intersecting street, hoping for a clue, a way out of this industrial maze. _Hmmm....which way to go? Follow your male driving instincts. Yeah, but look at where that's gotten you so far...lost...with whiplash._ He makes a right, feeling a good vibe coming from that direction. He tries to bolster his confidence with a god-awful Sean Connery-as-James-Bond impression: "Fucking grrrrrrreat, Will Tippin. Your spy skills are almost as good as mine. You even have those amazing built-in GPS skills that I've only dreamed about."

_To be a spy like James Bond would be the life, wouldn't it? Adventure, travel, intrigue...hot chicks._ _And if I wreck my car, I get a new one...and not a Cherokee...but rather a nice flashy Astin Martin Vanquish._ He grins, making another right.

Two minutes pass and he can tell he's getting close to an exit somewhere. 

Or not. There's a yellow sign ahead. Dead End. 

_Nice. Funny how one stupid sign came seemingly describe my whole life. _

A U-turn and five left turns later (the right turns obviously weren't getting him anywhere), his car starts sputtering, then slows to a stop. He presses the accelerator. Nothing.

_That would be because I'm out of gas. _

_There are just not enough swear words._

"What's the only thing worse than driving around, lost, in a maze of warehouses?" Will says to himself, opening the car door and reluctantly easing out the driver seat. "Walking around, lost, in a maze of warehouses."

With keys in hand, (_don't want to make this day even worse by locking my keys in my car that's out of gas_) he slams the door shut. A few more swear words pass through his lips while he locks the door.

And sighing, he starts walking. Straight. No more turns. 

***************

Ten minutes and five fantasies about torching his car later, Will sees her car. At first he thinks it's a mirage. _After all, looking at all of these fucking identical buildings could easily do that to someone. _But as he gets closer, he sees the license plate. It definitely belongs to Sydney. His heart speeds up as he thinks about tracking her down and finally getting to the bottom of this whole "Vaughn the tool" mystery. First of all, why the hell would she be meeting him in a warehouse? Did he work there? Did he run some kind of illegal operation...and the warehouse was his whole cover? Was Sydney buying drugs? Was Sydney selling drugs? The questions didn't ebb as he walks to the building's side entrance. He places a hand on the metal door handle, not knowing if he should do this. He had already betrayed her by reading her journal and following her today. What's one more infraction?

He exhales slowly and turns the handle, opening the door.

-----------

Note: That's it for this chapter. Let me know what you think....:)


	7. An Unexpected Confession

**************  
Chapter 7: An Unexpected Confession  
**************   


He's a good seven minutes early. Blame it on his upbringing, but Michael Vaughn is not a man to keep a woman waiting. Not only does he consider it a complete lack of respect (not to mention manners) to be tardy, but he believes the way one regards punctuality speaks volumes about oneself. He is easygoing by nature, but not a harried person, not scatterbrained, not confused, not sloppy, not rushed. He'd much rather be early than late, even if today is a supposedly leisurely day. It's supposed to be a day set aside for relaxation, for fun, for friends. And today has been set aside for a friend -- one he knows will also be on time. She's a lot like him in that respect. Professional. A planner who can also acclimate to change. A well-mannered individual who can maintain a poker face in just about any circumstance.

"Son of a bitch!" Sydney's voice is heard over the slam of the warehouse door. "I can't believe him!" _Or maybe not._

He sees her round the corner, her expression a mix of anger and sadness. Tears stain her reddened cheeks. His detailed eye notices her hands are shaking. He has an immediate flashback to their earlier encounter....when he had held her bruised hands tenderly in his. His cheeks redden -- he's still mortified at his actions. But he doesn't regret it any more than he regrets the soothing embrace they had shared after a few weeks ago in this very spot. 

And as soon as he sees her, he is reminded of his own flaws -- lack of control over his emotions when it comes to Sydney. What else could explain the physical encounter he had with that prick Haladki, his snappish tones with Barnett, his instinctual jaunt to SD-6 headquarters to assist Sydney take down Cole....? Sometimes it's best to screw being practical and give a good ass-kicking....or that's at least what Weiss said following the whole SD-6 takeover thing. Vaughn had smiled, his head still filled with "what-ifs" -- what if he hadn't gone to SD-6? What if Dixon's message had not gone through? What if Sydney had been seriously harmed? What if saving SD-6 was a mistake? He could've gone on forever. Thank God for Weiss and his never-ending lust for alcohol. They made a beeline straight to the bar after the two hour debriefing downtown and Weiss made it his personal mission to ensure Vaughn got completely wasted. _That's what friends are for....._

"Are you OK?" he says, careful to maintain his distance from her. He's still thinking about his actions earlier this morning. _You're lucky you didn't scare her off for good, behaving like that_, he mentally chides himself. _You are her handler, damnit, not some infatuated 17-year-old. You will not let it happen again. And that is that. _But even as he feels his resolve strengthen, he knows that it may not be a promise he can keep. And sometimes, like this morning, he doesn't care. Because they are friends today, not handler and agent, but just Sydney and Michael (although he knows she will always call him "Vaughn" -- and that doesn't bother him one bit).

She hurls her purse at the chain-link fence like she's pitching for the Mets. It, in turn, bounces off the metal and lands at her feet. "He followed me," she spits, kicking the black canvas tote into the far corner, still not making eye contact with Vaughn. "That sneaky bastard followed me."

Vaughn's mind jumps, his eyes widening. His hand instinctively reaches for his gun. "Who? Is someone here?"

"No, I lost him. He may be a good writer, but he certainly sucks at tailing someone," Sydney says, her fingers latching on to the fence. She rests her cheek against the metal, feeling its coolness soothe her fiery skin. "You know, sometimes I think everyone I know is slowly going crazy."

She finally looks at him, still resting against the fence, a sideways glance that conveys a frustration he knows only too well. "I mean, what can I do? I can't just come out and tell him the truth. I can't tell _anyone_ the truth. I can only pretend to be myself, and that's the best I can do." She pivots with a sigh, her back now against the fence. "It's just getting so hard to keep lying. This pretense is eroding all my friendships...hell, it's even starting to pick away at my sense of self."

"Let's sit down," he advises, wanting to try any method to calm her down. It was odd seeing her so worked up. Usually she was so composed, a marble statue of a ancient Greek goddess. She could have three guns pointed at her head from three different angles and not buckle under the pressure. But she has some sort of disagreement with her writer friend and she goes completely apeshit. _This means one of two things_, he thinks. Either she has some serious romantic feelings for Will (romance is the one thing that can make women get all emotional, even women as strong as Sydney, he suspects) or this paltry fight was the figurative straw that broke the camel's back (he hates resorting to old, overused clichés, but he can't help himself -- he's not the writer). 

"Arghhhhh," she growls, obeying his suggestion and plopping down on a nearby wooden crate. "Vaauuuuggghhhnnnn......" is all she says, her eyes locking on to his. The way she says his name is rough, passionate, full of feeling. For a scant second, he wishes they were anywhere but here in the warehouse, where he is constantly reminded of work, of protocol, of why he can never have her.

"Yes?" He makes sure to keep all emotion out of his voice. He is here in a friendly capacity, nothing more. Despite the burning in his chest, the ache in his fingertips, the tingle running down his spine.

"I...I just don't know if I can deal with this anymore," she replies in this hushed tone. The anger is gone, replaced by unshed tears in her rich brown eyes. 

Vaughn thinks it's best to remain silent and let her do the talking. Still standing, he places his hands in his pockets, not knowing what else to do. He wants to go to her, to comfort her, to at the very least give her a sturdy, reassuring, friendly squeeze (at the very most...well, he would rather not even let his mind wander there).

"I mean... I've been so angry at my mother and father for hiding all these things from me. How enraged I was every time my father revealed some other family secret to me...how my brain always got covered in this mist of betrayal. Like I was lost in this -- this heavy fog and all I could think is, 'why keep lying to me?' Well, I just realized that I'm doing the exact same thing to the people I love. And that there's nothing that makes me any different...from _her_." She spits out the final word as if it's sour, sticking to her tongue, abhorrent. "I'm building the same kind of life....one comprised entirely of lies, Vaughn. I'm no better than my mother."

"Sydney, you know that's not true. You are everything your mother was not. Good, amazing...fighting for all the right things," he says, putting his heart into every word. "You _know_ you're not like her," he repeats, his tone softer, but still full of emotion. He sees in her eyes that deep down, she knows he's right. _She knows she's fighting the good fight, that what she does every day is keeping this country safe._

"Is that what all of this," he motions to her abused purse in the corner, "is about? About your mother? Not about Will?" He unknowingly raises an eyebrow.

The look she shoots him in return answers his question. The sorrow in her expression is replaces by a flash of the anger he saw when she first arrived at the warehouse._ OK, so it _is _about Will, too......_

"Do you mind....if I ask what happened?" Vaughn asks quietly, moving closer to her, as if drawn by some magnetic force. He is still reminding himself to keep his distance, but moving a few feet closer can't hurt, right?_ It just proves that I'm an attentive listener, which, of course, I am_, he rationalizes.

She shrugs, her attention now on her shoelace. He looks at it too -- why is it so damn captivating? It's not frayed, not broken, not even dirty. It was like he was looking at one of those 3D posters -- the kind that Weiss had in his office back in the mid-90s. Vaughn could stare and stare at the irritating print for 15 minutes and all he would get out of it is a goddamn headache. If you want a picture of sailboats, get a picture of sailboats -- who needs to work at trying to see something in a poster that's really not there anyway? 

_What the hell is she looking at?_ She twirls the perfectly white, non-frayed shoelace around her finger as she starts, "Well, he....uh....had something important to tell me."

"What?" Vaughn is surprised at how fast he asks the question. He clears his throat. "I mean....what was it that he said?"

With her dark eyes still downcast, she says in an extremely quiet tone, "That he loves me."

_WHAT?!??!!? _Vaughn's eyes widen and he swears he just heard his jaw hit the floor. He knew this had been coming for a while, that this Will guy was probably harboring some secret admiration for Sydney (_how could any normal, breathing man not?_), but Vaughn never thought Will would actually admit to his feelings. It all proves the point that women and men can't be friends. How many women have I been friends with that I haven't tried to hit on....or vice versa? One of us always get brushed off and the friendship still remains intact, although indefinitely injured. Men and women can't be friends outright....there's always some attraction on one side or another. Yes, they can evolve into friends, but when the friendship is initiated, it's done mainly so one of them can try to pursue a more intimate relationship.

_Case in point_, he thinks, looking at Sydney (his eyes still wide as saucers). "Wow," he breathes, finally. He moves a few inches closer, hands still safe in his pockets. _There will be no hand grabbing this time, Michael_, he warns himself. He knows what he wants to say next, but can't think of a way to not sound too invested in her answer.

She beats him to it. "I told him that he's a great guy, a wonderful friend....but that's all we can be," she says, still not making eye contact. _Poor guy_, Vaughn thinks, actually feeling a bit sorry for this Will guy. What would Sydney say if he were to reveal his burgeoning romantic feelings for her? Would she say that he's a great guy and a wonderful friend...and that their relationship could never be anything more....? _Hell, it shouldn't -- and it can't_, he reminds himself. _We -- Sydney and I -- can never be. We will always remain separated by our jobs, by protocol...by the always-present danger that surrounds her every move. _

"Oh," is all Vaughn can say. He wants to know more, every detail, every word exchanged, but he will not ask. Instead he waits, hoping she will elaborate.

And after a slow, tortuous minute, she does.

"And then he got all weird....super defensive....and said that I was in love with someone...and he demanded to know who it was." Her eyes dart away from the shoelace and move over the room, finally focusing on a distant wall. Vaughn's mind is reeling. He doesn't know what to think, let alone say. _Is Sydney in love with someone? Who? And...could it be....no...there's no way....but she did mention that Kings game a few weeks ago....and.....no....don't even think this, Vaughn._

"And I told him he was mistaken." Her gaze is still fixed on that wall. He lets out a pent-up breath that he wasn't even aware of holding. 

"Then he brought up the bruises on my hands and he was getting so out of control for a moment there," she shakes her head, remembering. "I've never seen him like that before. I mean...part of me felt angry that he could just start accusing me of all this stuff, y'know...having the nerve to stand there and assume these bruises were inflicted by some anonymous man I'm completely in love with. But then, I couldn't help but feel sorry for him....and feel guilty that I had caused him so much pain...."

She hesitates, looking like something is weighing heavily on her mind. Her eyes raise to meet his and there's an immediate connection that keeps Vaughn silenced. If he were to make an attempt at talking, it would undoubtedly be complete gibberish. For Sydney's brown eyes are troubled, but sparkling at the same time. And this becoming pink tint creeps over her prominent cheekbones. He can't even string two thoughts together, let alone real, meaningful words. 

She bites her lip, still keeping eye contact with him. He can't remember when she's ever looked so beautiful, so mysterious, so goddamn perfect.

He can't help but smile. It's not a full-fledged smile, though, more of a half-smile, with just one corner of his mouth curving upward. He doesn't thnk he could manage a full smile at this point. She has somehow paralyzed his thoughts, his movements. She opens her full lips slowly and takes a deep breath.

The next words out of her mouth completely floor him.

"And perhaps the worst thing -- about all of it -- is that I flat-out lied to him about being in love with someone."

**********

Note: So what do you think? I'm still trying to decide what I should have happen next....any suggestions?


End file.
